AN IRRESISTIBLE BACHELOR

by Jessica Bird

  Arthur was another one of Jack's soft spots. The other night the dog had come inside with a limp. Jack had gotten down on his hands and knees, in his suit, to look at the injured foot. As he'd gently probed the area, Artie had capitulated to the examination with total trust, even as he winced while a thorn was taken out. When it was all over, Jack had put some Bacitracin in between the pads, wrapped some gauze around the wound, and then fed Artie some filet mignon from his own plate. That night, the dog had wanted to sleep with him.

  "Hello?" Jack prompted.

  She shook her head. "Sorry. Hey, what's that fantastic smell?"

  "Thomas's marinara sauce, I believe."

  "Thomas?"

  "Our erstwhile cook." He frowned. "You haven't seen him during the day? "

  "No, I stay up in the garage."

  "All day long? Until I come home? Don't you eat?"

  She shrugged. "I lose track of time and forget."

  "Where's your watch?"

  "I don't have one."

  He grumbled something under his breath while taking her elbow and urging her ahead. The contact burned and she closed her eyes briefly, letting him lead her into the kitchen.

  "I think you will like Thomas."

  As she fought against the urge to lean into Jack's body, she thought maybe it was a good thing this other guy was coming. Maybe she'd really like him and her mind would get taken off of Jack.

  When they got to the kitchen, she was surprised to see a man with only one arm holding a pot of boiling water over a sieve in the sink. She doubted she could have handled the load with two hands, but the guy looked perfectly at ease as he tipped the handle and sent a torrent of hot water and pasta over the lip.

  "Thomas, I've got someone for you to meet."

  The cook looked over his shoulder. He was probably around sixty, she thought, and had a face like a bulldog with the short, stocky body to match. She caught a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from under his short-sleeved shirt and noticed there was a small gold hoop in his earlobe. She never would have guessed a roughneck like him would be in charge of Buona Fortuna's kitchen. She imagined the chef would have been some whip-thin Continental with a haughty attitude to match Mrs. Walker's.

  Thomas sent her a grin and Callie liked him on the spot.

  "So this is who's been stealing food out of my refrigerator," he said. The man had a terrific New England accent marked by flat vowels and hard,

  lingering consonants. "Every morning I come down and fruit's gone out of my bowl, someone's been into the eggs, and bread's gone. Just like there's breakfast being made."

  He put the pan to the side and came over. His kitchen whites were spotless, she noted, except for the dishtowel that hung from his belt and had a couple of red smudges on it.

  As they shook hands, she noticed that he had a tattoo of an anchor on the inside of his forearm. A seaman, she thought.

  "So what are we eating, chef?" Jack asked, going over to the cupboards and taking out a pile of dishes. He proceeded to set the low-slung oak table that was in front of a bay window.

  "My marinara sauce. For a cold night like tonight, it's just what you need before hitting the sack."

  Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "Bless your heart. I'm starved."

  "Yeah, it's your mother we can't get to eat around here." As Arthur came over to Thomas and looked up at him, the man laughed. "But this one, we can't get to stop with the munching. Can we?"

  The dog waved his tail and licked his chops.

  "So what are your plans for tonight?" Jack asked as he pulled out some linen napkins.

  "Got a date with the sweet Angelina."

  Jack laughed. "She's still around?"

  "Son, you don't turn down a woman like that. She's got special skills with her—” Thomas paused and glanced at Callie. "Er-she's a great conversationalist."

  Callie grinned as the man took off his apron and tossed it into a hamper in the corner. "I'm heading up to shower and then I'm going out. Don't wait up."

  "Wouldn't dream of it," Jack replied.

  "Nice to meet you, Callie."

  She waved. "Same here."

  When the lights dimmed, she looked up in surprise. Jack came over, lit the candles on the table, and offered her some wine. She decided to hold off on the alcohol until his friend arrived. Suddenly, the intimate atmosphere seemed a little overwhelming and she wanted to keep sharp.

  This was not about her and Jack, she reminded herself as they sat down. He had a fiancée and she was waiting to be introduced to his friend. This was absolutely not about the two of them.

  "You're really going to like Gray," Jack said. What followed was a long list of the man's attributes, including some anecdotes about Jack's college days that had her listening more for clues about Jack than anything about his friend.

  "And I told him all about you."

  "What did you say?"

  "That you are smart and—” He cleared his throat. "And that you're beautiful."

  She slowly lifted her eyes to his face. He was staring at the deep red wine in his glass, swirling it around so it caught the light.

  "So, how are you and Nathaniel getting along?" he asked brusquely.

  "Fine." She was more than happy to talk about work. "It's taken me a while to finish the overview, but it's important to be precise during the documentation part of the project. I took pictures of him today and I'll start working on the canvas tomorrow."

  There was a brief silence and then she asked, "What was your day like?"

  Jack smiled and started to remove his cuff links. She heard one hit the table with a solid sound.

  "Not all that good." He took off the other one and started rolling up his sleeves. The backs of his arms were covered with fine, dark hair and she had to look away. "The blood brothers are still driving me nuts, I think interest rates are going to go up, and my assistant gave notice because she's going to start business school in January. On the other hand, one of my main competitors got indicted for fraud. How's that for a day? The best thing that happened was I got to picture someone I dislike in horizontal stripes. Oh, but my brother's coming for a visit soon."

  She fiddled with the silverware in front of her, turning the knife over and over. "Really? Tell me more about him."

  "We're twins." He laughed as she glanced up. "I didn't mean that. Well, we look nothing alike if that makes any sense. He's a hell of a cook, as I mentioned. Thomas taught him the basics and then, after he graduated from Harvard, he went to CIA."

  "He was a spy, too?"

  "Culinary Institute of America."

  "Ah." She smiled. "You two must be close. Or at least I've heard that about twins."

  "We are, even though we don't have a lot in common." Jack's voice took on a hard edge. "Although our father didn't like either one of us, so that's something."

  Callie frowned, trying to imagine how a parent couldn't be proud of everything Jack had accomplished. Ten billion dollars was a lot of money for one man to be able to throw around. "But why?"

  He shrugged. "I was too aggressive, Nate was too laid-back. In retrospect, I think my father got along better with women his whole life. He probably would have been easier on daughters."

  The phone rang and Jack reached over to the wall. When he hung up, he looked out of joint.

  "Gray's not coming. He said to tell you he was sorry and that he's looking forward to meeting you."

  "Oh."

  Jack frowned for moment, but then went over to the stove, where he put some pasta into two bowls and ladled on the sauce. After he'd served her and sat down with his own food, she thought it all looked too good to be true. The candlelight. The steaming bowls of pasta.

  Him.

  "Wine?" he asked.

  Yes, she could certainly use a drink right about now. "Please. But white, if you don't mind. My head doesn't like red."

  Jack went over to a wine refrigerator and pulled out a bottle. As he opened it at the table, her eyes lingered on his hands, tracin
g the thick veins that ran down his arms and into his fingers. She thought of what he'd looked like after returning from his run. All sweat and muscle.

  "Is it hot in here?" she asked abruptly.

  "You want me to open the window?"

  She shook her head as he poured. When he was seated, he raised his glass in a toast.

  "To Nathaniel."

  "To Nathaniel." Their glasses met. And then their eyes did.

  Looking across the candles at him, she thought the scene felt very different from their usual routine.

  She quickly took a drink and focused on her glass. "Good Lord. What kind of wine is this?"

  He said something in French and followed the grand title with the year she'd gotten her learner's permit to drive a car.

  "It's, ah—very nice." And no doubt the best wine she'd ever had.

  As she tried the pasta, she let out a small moan of appreciation.

  Jack looked up. "I feel the same way. The man's a genius."

  "How long have you known him?"

  "He's been here since the seventies. He could be a chef in any first-class restaurant, but he works best by himself. But what about you?" He switched the subject deftly. "Do you have any siblings?"

  Callie swallowed a mouthful that had turned flavorless. She bought herself some time by drinking a little wine.

  "I have a half sister," she said quietly.

  "Are you close?"

  "Ah—it's complicated. But I like her very much."

  He nodded and let the subject drop, only to bring up something that completely wiped out her appetite.

  "What about your parents? What are they like?" He was twirling pasta around his fork casually, but she wasn't fooled. He was waiting for her answer.

  "They're both dead."

  He lowered his fork. "I'm sorry."

  She shrugged. In the dim light, she was stupidly tempted to talk. About her mother, at least. But then she eyed the empty place setting, where his friend should have been, and reminded herself that an accident of fate had put them alone together. This was not some magical beginning for them.

  "Thanks, but I'm doing okay."

  "So who do you go to when you need help?" he asked. "Who's there for you?"

  She took a good long drink. "I, ah—I don't know how to answer that."

  "You could try a proper noun," he chided gently.

  She smiled, thinking when he got playful like that, he was pretty damn near irresistible.

  "I try to keep to myself," she said.

  He frowned and tilted his head to one side. "What kind of men do you go for?"

  She looked at him in surprise. "What kind of—God, I don't know."

  "Come on, there must be a set of characteristics you find attractive. Looks, humor, money—”

  "Definitely not money."

  He smiled and picked up his glass. "So that takes me out of the running."

  "You're out of the running because you have a fiancée." As soon as the words were out, she wanted to curse. "What I mean is—”

  Jack took a fast drink. "I know, I know."

  There was a long silence.

  "So back to your men. What's your type?"

  Callie shook her head at his persistence. "I don't have a type."

  "Everyone does."

  "So what's yours?" she countered quickly.

  "Touche. But how about you go first this time?"

  When she just smiled and stayed silent, he laughed.

  "Don't tell me you can't take what you dish out?" As she remained quiet, he said, "Fine. Why don't you tell me what you think my kind of woman is? But remember, charity begins at home and you're under my roof."

  She hesitated. "Are we talking about the new, improved, socially responsible Jack Walker? Or the playboy whose pants have been known to run through hotel lobbies without him?"

  He laughed. "For both our sakes, let's keep it current."

  "Okay." She took a long drink from her glass and was surprised when she emptied it. "I'm sure you'd want someone who shares your background and values, who's beautiful, socially adept. I can't imagine you'd waste time with a dummy so she'd have to be smart. And I think it would make it easier for you if your mother approved, although I doubt you'd make that a condition."

  His eyebrows rose and she got the impression she'd nailed the answer.

  "May I have some more wine?" she asked quickly.

  His lips lifted. "Of course. If you answer my question."

  "I just did."

  He smiled. "I still want to talk about your men."

  Well, that was going to be one short conversation, she thought wryly.

  Shifting in her chair, she noted that he seemed content to wait her out.

  "My wine first," she prompted, tipping her glass forward.

  He poured and then looked at her directly. "So?"

  She shrugged. "There's nothing to tell."

  "Or nothing you want to share."

  "The end result is the same, isn't it? "

  "You are so damn elusive," he muttered. "Getting information from you is like pulling an oak out of the ground with a shoestring."

  She had to smile. "Interesting way of putting it."

  "You frustrate the hell out of me."

  "So maybe you should give up."

  He shook his head, looking at her through his dense eyelashes. The hazel in his eyes burned. "Sorry, Callie. I'm not that kind of a man."

  She pushed her wine away abruptly and stood up. "It would probably be better for us both if you were."

  When she made a move to go past him, he reached for her hand. His grip was warm. Urgent. "Don't go."

  She knew if she looked into his eyes she'd be lost, so she stared at one of the candles, watching the flame undulate slowly. The air seemed to have suddenly thickened and her lungs felt tight.

  "I really wish you hadn't kissed me," she murmured.

  The bold statement was followed by an absurd urge to smack her palm over her mouth.

  "Tell me," he said softly, "are you looking for another apology for what I did? Or is it because you can't quite get how it felt out of your mind?"

  Through the candlelight, his voice drifted up to her, embracing her.

  She tried to take a deep breath. Her heart couldn't seem to decide between beating triple time or stopping altogether.

  Warily, she looked into his eyes. Crazy things started to swirl in her mind, like images of herself leaning down toward him.

  She watched his gaze go to her lips. As his eyes darkened to a near black, she had the sense that he was as conflicted as she was.

  Callie shook her head, trying to get her hand back. When he didn't let go, she stopped and asked, "What are we doing here?"

  "I wish to hell I knew."

  And then he got to his feet and pulled her to him.

  Putting his hands on either side of her face, he bent his head and she closed her eyes, lifting her mouth for his loss even as she told herself it was wrong.

  He already had a woman. A fiancée. This was all wrong.

  Still, when the kiss didn't come, she was bitterly disappointed.

  She lifted her lids. He was poised, inches from her lips, his eyes burning. But he came no closer.

  Riding a wave of insanity, she grabbed his shoulders and pulled him down so she could kiss him. He resisted for a split second and then crushed her to him so they were hip to hip, chest to chest. His mouth was hungry on hers, his tongue sliding between her lips, his hands digging into her hair. She moaned and leaned into him, feeling the length of his body against hers, so solid and strong.

  "God, help me," Jack groaned while he pulled her shirt free and slid his hands onto her bare skin. "You feel too good."

  He pressed her up against something, maybe the wall, his hands coming around to her stomach as he kissed her neck. His lower body was grafted onto hers, the hardness of him pressing into her and she only wanted him closer. Naked. Inside of her. She held onto his shoulders with all her strength as
he slowly moved his palms upward to her breasts. He spanned them with his hands, cradling the sides in his palms, but he didn't actually touch them. She strained against him, wanting more.

  With a moan, he stopped kissing her and rested his head on her shoulder, breathing heavily. The sound rushed in her ear, as loud as the screaming in her blood. As he struggled for self-control, she didn't know whether to be grateful or not.

  "This isn't right," he said roughly. "We shouldn't be doing this."

  But then his thumb moved over to her nipple. It was the gentlest of brushing, but it made her want to cry out in triumph and need. She arched back, trying to give him more room, and found herself in full contact with his erection.

  Abruptly, he pulled away and put the distance of the kitchen between them. She stared in shock at the retreat, wondering what had made him stop, as shame cut through her sensual fog.

  But then his mother walked into the room.

  Callie tried to gather up her composure, to look something other than thoroughly kissed and achingly frustrated in front of Mrs. Walker. Heading back to her chair, she surreptitiously pulled down her shirt, glad that the woman tended to ignore her presence.

  Thank God Jack heard the front door open. She sure hadn't.

  "Well," Mercedes said. "Isn't this cozy."

  Callie was grateful for the dim light as she picked up her fork and pushed the cold food in her bowl around. She had no doubt that her face was showing what her body was still feeling and no mother needed to see that.

  Especially not Mercedes Walker.

  "You're home early, Mother." Jack's voice was dry and Callie risked a look at him. His face was utterly composed, as if nothing had happened at all. Considering the hoarse rasp of his voice just moments before, his recovery was downright astounding.

  "I wasn't feeling well."

  Callie glanced over at the woman. She looked perfectly fine.

  For someone who was thoroughly pissed off but hiding it well.

  Mercedes's eyes were shooting messages at Jack and it was pretty clear what the gist of them were. The woman obviously didn't like the intimate atmosphere in the kitchen, didn't approve of her son having quiet dinners with someone other than his fiancée. She no doubt would have fallen over in a dead faint if she'd walked in on them while they were actually kissing.